Ho, March wind! Why blow so hard?
Why try to scour each street and yard?
Why swish through trees till the limbs bow down
And men chase their hats and grumble and frown?
Why, March wind, do you swish the eaves
And tug at each remnant of fallen leaves
And whistle through belfries and towers up high
And race with clouds across the sky?
Why must you bluster and sweep so clean
That banners billow and fence posts lean?
Why rattle the signs and blow dogs’ hair
And force your fierce breath everywhere?
“Why? April’s coming! I swish and blow
And whistle and scour and rush and flow
And brush all things to make them neat,
To ready a path for April’s feet!”